The cemetery which is home to the Tombstone Kids is large, wild and overgrown. A landscape of stone angels and ivy. White stone and green growth. Tall grass. Venerable yew trees in which owls wait for nightfall. The smell of rosebay willowherb and the scuffling of rats.
Blank faces of angel stone, features eroded by the wind and rain, keep silent vigil over child graves. Moss cushioning stone. A small chapel, its roof caved in, its walls dense with ivy, its interior stripped and set fire to, sits on the periphery of the cemetery, guarding the gates.
In the centre of the cemetery sits a war memorial. It is here the children meet, lighting a fire at the foot of the monument and sitting on its steps, telling stories and entertaining one another with magic tricks. Oliver Twist, the orphan fox cub sits with them on these nights, in the fire-heat, intelligent of eye, handsome in his red coat
The Tombstone Kids. Unorganised. Leaderless.
The children live in mausoleums. Dry and warm. With the dead to keep them company.
There are no better thieves, burglars and pickpockets. Ghosts that flit through crowded streets. Unseen and unheard. Light fingered enough to snatch the watch from your wrist. Quiet enough to unpeel the pyjamas from your snoozing wife. Deeply knowledgeable about the history and traditions of their craft they delight in reinventing old ruses and set pieces. Cons and techniques. Slice the pocket out your trousers with a pair of scissors. Skilled in street magic, masters of misdirection, sleight of hand, suggestion and cold reading. They pride themselves on their elaborate ruses. Their choreography. Their audacity. The Tombstone Kids elevate theft to an artform. An performance. A spectacle. They will stage alien abductions to steal a wallet. They have no sense of proportion. The more extravagant the better. The item to be stolen is merely an excuse for the performance. A new method of misdirection. A new conjuring trick. Some subtle ploy for the appreciation of the connoisseur.
Not many of them. It's a select group. A few boys. A few girls.
Here's Fellini. A thin kid, moves like a cat, and just as nervy. Dark hair, dark eyes, cheekbones you could slit your wrists with. Long fingers, delicate, like a concert pianist. A master of his trade. Only 14. Dresses well. Today we find him in a top hat, a velvet waistcoat over a white shirt of Egyptian cotton, a silk cravat and an antique, gold fob watch. On special occasions he wears the mayors chains of office. Took them right off the old boy's neck. He never felt a thing.
Saturday, June 28, 2008
CIMMARRONS!
In the desert lands where nothing grows child raiders and bandits frolic with machine guns and bayonets. These are the Cimmarrons. The grouop was formed by child soldiers, generations ago. Enlisted to fight a grown-up war they rebelled and slaughtered their officers and fled to the desert lands where nothing grows, their numbers swollen by runaways from the labour camps and miltias. Here they have built their homes and shrines and lives of fierce fantasy. Lives overgrown with the vines and creepers of wild myth, a living green world, dense and humid jungle of the imagination in which they are completely at home. Fed by their own daring raids and artful burglaries. Watch them running, fabrics which glitter, flutter, catch the wild sun. Turbans unraveling, the rattling and jangling of improvised jewelry made of bird beaks and tiny bones, coloured plastic, feathers, beads, shells, tin foil and aluminum. All are dressed as emperors, viziers, sultans, demented shamans in platypus masks and condor wings, magicians in robes and conical, star patterned hats, spacemen and jumble-sale samurai. Monkey bands of whooping boys, crashing through paradise.
Their camp is ringed with flags, fetishes and totems. Ragged pennants, banners of independence. Boys doze in hammocks strung between totem poles.
At puberty the boy must descend into the pit. This brings together all the members of the pack in a mood of great and childlike solemnity. Drums beat and the children chant. The pubescent child is descending into another world and shall never return to this one. He wears a false beard of horse hair and a wooden phallus strapped to his crotch.
The Cimmarrons have no agriculture. They neither hunt nor gather. They refuse to engage in anything resembling work. All their needs are met by the spoils of raids and ambushes. By theft and robbery. Masters of guerrilla warfare. Of cunning and stealth. They are utterly ruthless. Slaughtering the Overseers of the brick pits and copper mines. Massacaring the commanding officers of two-bit militas and liberating their child captives. They melt into the scenery like mist eaten by the rising sun.
"They just disappeared Sir, it all happened so quick sir. Took all the kids with 'em Sir, I'm the only one left alive Sir, look Sir, all dead Sir."
Their camp is ringed with flags, fetishes and totems. Ragged pennants, banners of independence. Boys doze in hammocks strung between totem poles.
At puberty the boy must descend into the pit. This brings together all the members of the pack in a mood of great and childlike solemnity. Drums beat and the children chant. The pubescent child is descending into another world and shall never return to this one. He wears a false beard of horse hair and a wooden phallus strapped to his crotch.
The Cimmarrons have no agriculture. They neither hunt nor gather. They refuse to engage in anything resembling work. All their needs are met by the spoils of raids and ambushes. By theft and robbery. Masters of guerrilla warfare. Of cunning and stealth. They are utterly ruthless. Slaughtering the Overseers of the brick pits and copper mines. Massacaring the commanding officers of two-bit militas and liberating their child captives. They melt into the scenery like mist eaten by the rising sun.
"They just disappeared Sir, it all happened so quick sir. Took all the kids with 'em Sir, I'm the only one left alive Sir, look Sir, all dead Sir."
Friday, June 27, 2008
KALAKUTA!
Badger Priests trained in the Warrens. Intefered with by prurient old zealots in purple robes.
When the Badger Priests begin to manifest signs of sexual maturity they must surrender their badger pelt.
"Father, I suffered night-emissions, here is my pelt"
a solemn moment. the child's head is bent in shame. there is great sadness but no Badger Priest would ever dream of dissembling. Plod sees everything.
"Mother, my womb drips blood, here is my pelt"
Robes of stained glass, mosaics of glitering glass and jewels sewn into flowing fabrics. Sequins. Materials which bewitch the light. Jewelery.Ceremonial antlers.
Robespierre! He wears the antlers of office! His men and women shimmer in robes which seduce the sun!
The children follow their path, dancing and laughing...
The Ark on the Rock.... The Republic.... In the courtyard men and women beat enormous drums
An enormous bonfire burns and there the light flickers and is blurred with smoke
Lagbaja! The Faceless One! Lagbaja dances in smoke haze....
Lagbaja dances in orange flicker of flame and shadow, movements like those of the flame
Lagbaja! The children crowd around him laughing and shouting. As he dances he mimics those around him, he snatches Robespierre's antlers and mocks his striaght backed gravitas, he gestures regally, he frowns and sighs
he extrudes his arse and makes vigourous pelvic thrusts, he bounces his arse up and down and rolls his hips, he falls into a press-up position and humps the dirt with infectious relish.....
he rolls back his eyes and raises his arms to the sky in a parody of trance, becomes possessed, writhes in the dirt
he mimes a prissy, rigidly choreographed dance routine of the sort practised by Ricky Dandelion
he goose steps, stands to attention, salutes, breaks into the Dandelion dance again....
He struts over to Robespierre, sashaying his hips, his lips drawn into a pout and slaps him on the arse
stands behind him and starts a grinding into him in a parody of exuberant lust
Robespierre can't help but laugh, he snatches back his antlers and the pair of them execute the Dandelion dance in perfect synchronisation
horns blow
Robespierre breaks into song
Lagbaja is joined by two beautiful young women, one on either side, they sway to the music and play the role of back-up vocalists
Everyone sings. Everyone dances.
Look around. Through the fire smoke. Through the swift limbs of dancing bodies.
The compound is built of mud and stone. It is centred around the courtyard in which we stand. The building is a scuplture. Its walls are decorated with paintings and low reliefs. These are built up communally with no coherent plan, in the way a city wall comes to swarm with graffiti. Image and word.
Walls are topped with spiralling pinnacles like sea-shells, minarets and pyramids. Walls and roofs sag and bulge, curve and writhe like the edges of a burning candle. Wax moulded by fire. Lava cooling to rock.
This building is not based on the cube. It is not a series of boxes. Walls are prickly or goosebumped or ridged. Conical forms like termite mounds protrude from the floor. Sculpted forms of men, women, gods and demons begin to free themselves from the walls, begin to find form, half-embedded in the building. Facades assume the stylised forms of faces, human and animal.
The decoration is maniacal. All space is filled. Plants grow everywhere. Trees fill rooms, stretch branches through the roof. Creepers reach out feelers along every vertical plane. Plants grapple for light. Birds are everywhere, indoors and out. Singing and fluttering. The roofs are thick and green gardens. Plants droop lazy limbs over roof tops. Dangle idly in the air.
There are people everywhere. Wandering through the corridors. Courting and kissing in the roof gardens. Reading in the libraries and under fruit trees, playing instruments and dancing in the courtyard, flirting and talking and laughing. Lying on cushions. Laughing on cushions. Listening and talking and joking. Children playing and running, leaping like rabbits in long grass.
People studying. Reading. Lost in thought. In rooms whitewashed and soundproofed. Free from noise and distraction. Meditating in the whitewashed cells.
Always music. Landscape of sound. Sound glitters on foothills. Sound sun rising over sound hills.
Time expands. Becomes multi-levelled. The moment strectched accordian-like. Layers. Move up and down within the moment.
Always talk. Always communication. Mind-meld. Communion. Always listening. Connect.
Ideas dart and leap from mind to mind. Dart across space. Electric thought. Mind reaches out to mind.
The Ark on the Rock is deep inside Nogo. Within the walls.
It maintains links with all the most established dissident groups existing in Establishment territory. The Tombstone Kids, the Cimmarrons, etc and has inspired dozens more. There is a network of tunnels extending from within Nogo to the outside.
This is the hive where the bees are buzzing. Where they fly out from. Where they return to.
Kalakuta!
Republic of Rapscallions! Rogues and Rascals!
Where no government holds a mandate. Where no law holds.
Swarm through the tunnels. There is no where they cannot reach. Every shanty town, every lawless no man's land, every military compound and factory floor has hosted them. They allow no pool to lie still and stagnant. Information always. Flow of thought, idea, change. Information.
Robespierre is the face. Lagbaja is the faceless.
When the Badger Priests begin to manifest signs of sexual maturity they must surrender their badger pelt.
"Father, I suffered night-emissions, here is my pelt"
a solemn moment. the child's head is bent in shame. there is great sadness but no Badger Priest would ever dream of dissembling. Plod sees everything.
"Mother, my womb drips blood, here is my pelt"
Robes of stained glass, mosaics of glitering glass and jewels sewn into flowing fabrics. Sequins. Materials which bewitch the light. Jewelery.Ceremonial antlers.
Robespierre! He wears the antlers of office! His men and women shimmer in robes which seduce the sun!
The children follow their path, dancing and laughing...
The Ark on the Rock.... The Republic.... In the courtyard men and women beat enormous drums
An enormous bonfire burns and there the light flickers and is blurred with smoke
Lagbaja! The Faceless One! Lagbaja dances in smoke haze....
Lagbaja dances in orange flicker of flame and shadow, movements like those of the flame
Lagbaja! The children crowd around him laughing and shouting. As he dances he mimics those around him, he snatches Robespierre's antlers and mocks his striaght backed gravitas, he gestures regally, he frowns and sighs
he extrudes his arse and makes vigourous pelvic thrusts, he bounces his arse up and down and rolls his hips, he falls into a press-up position and humps the dirt with infectious relish.....
he rolls back his eyes and raises his arms to the sky in a parody of trance, becomes possessed, writhes in the dirt
he mimes a prissy, rigidly choreographed dance routine of the sort practised by Ricky Dandelion
he goose steps, stands to attention, salutes, breaks into the Dandelion dance again....
He struts over to Robespierre, sashaying his hips, his lips drawn into a pout and slaps him on the arse
stands behind him and starts a grinding into him in a parody of exuberant lust
Robespierre can't help but laugh, he snatches back his antlers and the pair of them execute the Dandelion dance in perfect synchronisation
horns blow
Robespierre breaks into song
Lagbaja is joined by two beautiful young women, one on either side, they sway to the music and play the role of back-up vocalists
Everyone sings. Everyone dances.
Look around. Through the fire smoke. Through the swift limbs of dancing bodies.
The compound is built of mud and stone. It is centred around the courtyard in which we stand. The building is a scuplture. Its walls are decorated with paintings and low reliefs. These are built up communally with no coherent plan, in the way a city wall comes to swarm with graffiti. Image and word.
Walls are topped with spiralling pinnacles like sea-shells, minarets and pyramids. Walls and roofs sag and bulge, curve and writhe like the edges of a burning candle. Wax moulded by fire. Lava cooling to rock.
This building is not based on the cube. It is not a series of boxes. Walls are prickly or goosebumped or ridged. Conical forms like termite mounds protrude from the floor. Sculpted forms of men, women, gods and demons begin to free themselves from the walls, begin to find form, half-embedded in the building. Facades assume the stylised forms of faces, human and animal.
The decoration is maniacal. All space is filled. Plants grow everywhere. Trees fill rooms, stretch branches through the roof. Creepers reach out feelers along every vertical plane. Plants grapple for light. Birds are everywhere, indoors and out. Singing and fluttering. The roofs are thick and green gardens. Plants droop lazy limbs over roof tops. Dangle idly in the air.
There are people everywhere. Wandering through the corridors. Courting and kissing in the roof gardens. Reading in the libraries and under fruit trees, playing instruments and dancing in the courtyard, flirting and talking and laughing. Lying on cushions. Laughing on cushions. Listening and talking and joking. Children playing and running, leaping like rabbits in long grass.
People studying. Reading. Lost in thought. In rooms whitewashed and soundproofed. Free from noise and distraction. Meditating in the whitewashed cells.
Always music. Landscape of sound. Sound glitters on foothills. Sound sun rising over sound hills.
Time expands. Becomes multi-levelled. The moment strectched accordian-like. Layers. Move up and down within the moment.
Always talk. Always communication. Mind-meld. Communion. Always listening. Connect.
Ideas dart and leap from mind to mind. Dart across space. Electric thought. Mind reaches out to mind.
The Ark on the Rock is deep inside Nogo. Within the walls.
It maintains links with all the most established dissident groups existing in Establishment territory. The Tombstone Kids, the Cimmarrons, etc and has inspired dozens more. There is a network of tunnels extending from within Nogo to the outside.
This is the hive where the bees are buzzing. Where they fly out from. Where they return to.
Kalakuta!
Republic of Rapscallions! Rogues and Rascals!
Where no government holds a mandate. Where no law holds.
Swarm through the tunnels. There is no where they cannot reach. Every shanty town, every lawless no man's land, every military compound and factory floor has hosted them. They allow no pool to lie still and stagnant. Information always. Flow of thought, idea, change. Information.
Robespierre is the face. Lagbaja is the faceless.
Thursday, June 26, 2008
MEIN UBERMENSCH!
Frankie Flypaper. Child of the Refuse Islands. Child of the Cancer Villages. Reborn!
And what is this? No stomach? No digestive organs? He draws living energy from sun and sky, more self-sufficient than the plant! Is this the future? To be freed from the cycle of toil that has charcterised the history of Man? Free from the wheedling demands of the body?
Free from the dependancy of the child that clings always to the mother's breast and cries and wails with each second of seperation? No More!
Frankie's skin is clear and pure, his eyes are violet and his hair is raven black.
And what is this? No stomach? No digestive organs? He draws living energy from sun and sky, more self-sufficient than the plant! Is this the future? To be freed from the cycle of toil that has charcterised the history of Man? Free from the wheedling demands of the body?
Free from the dependancy of the child that clings always to the mother's breast and cries and wails with each second of seperation? No More!
Frankie's skin is clear and pure, his eyes are violet and his hair is raven black.
An unemployed ventriloquist is slouched on a park bench
a crumpled blue suit
leaves gather about his feet.
He scatters crumbs and lends his voice to the pigeons which gather round
"Excuse me love, that's my crust"
"Get out of it you horrible old git"
"Alright darling, come here often?"
"Oi Mister, this bread's stale"
The dialouge becomes lewder, more violent, bizzare, unhinged
he leans foward on his seat, his voice rising in volume and emotion
The ventriloquist is shouting, stabbing the air with an outstreched finger, face red, veins throbbing in his temples.
Passers-by adjust their paths to avoid him, making detours across the ornamental lawns
shoot nervous glances in his direction.
The pigeons feign disinterest....
NEXT!
a crumpled blue suit
leaves gather about his feet.
He scatters crumbs and lends his voice to the pigeons which gather round
"Excuse me love, that's my crust"
"Get out of it you horrible old git"
"Alright darling, come here often?"
"Oi Mister, this bread's stale"
The dialouge becomes lewder, more violent, bizzare, unhinged
he leans foward on his seat, his voice rising in volume and emotion
The ventriloquist is shouting, stabbing the air with an outstreched finger, face red, veins throbbing in his temples.
Passers-by adjust their paths to avoid him, making detours across the ornamental lawns
shoot nervous glances in his direction.
The pigeons feign disinterest....
NEXT!
Six men in toucan masks wrap the night about them-disappear into its folds.
It's Robespierre and his musicians, they play strangely shaped horns and hand drums. He is only seen like this, within a protective sheath of sound.
They say his musicians control the perceptions and behaviour of the crowd, that they can make him appear invisible, or 10 feet tall. This accords with the evidence. All eyewitness accounts concur. Attest to inexplicable phenomena. Sound is known to possess these properties.
Panic sound. Sleep sound. Rage sound.
Rhythms to stretch consciousness. Till the whole world is held in a single thought....
Six men in toucan masks, turbans, black robes, wrapped in the night....
Every one within hearing range begins to dance
Cleanse them! Purge them of their afflictions! Dance till you are purified!
All awareness of space and time is engulfed as sound becomes an all encompassing environment.
The dancers move in a field of music. The music is the landscape. The music is the climate. The music is the texture. The music swells to fill all senses. It is the topography. It is the thought. It is the emotion. This is not exaggeration. This is not poetic license. This is as objective a description as is possible. The musicians now have total control over the dancers. They create the environment the dancers exist within. Not only the physical environment, but the inner landscape. They have control over even the heart rate and other autonomous physical processes. This is meant literally. This cannot be stressed enough.
It's Robespierre and his musicians, they play strangely shaped horns and hand drums. He is only seen like this, within a protective sheath of sound.
They say his musicians control the perceptions and behaviour of the crowd, that they can make him appear invisible, or 10 feet tall. This accords with the evidence. All eyewitness accounts concur. Attest to inexplicable phenomena. Sound is known to possess these properties.
Panic sound. Sleep sound. Rage sound.
Rhythms to stretch consciousness. Till the whole world is held in a single thought....
Six men in toucan masks, turbans, black robes, wrapped in the night....
Every one within hearing range begins to dance
Cleanse them! Purge them of their afflictions! Dance till you are purified!
All awareness of space and time is engulfed as sound becomes an all encompassing environment.
The dancers move in a field of music. The music is the landscape. The music is the climate. The music is the texture. The music swells to fill all senses. It is the topography. It is the thought. It is the emotion. This is not exaggeration. This is not poetic license. This is as objective a description as is possible. The musicians now have total control over the dancers. They create the environment the dancers exist within. Not only the physical environment, but the inner landscape. They have control over even the heart rate and other autonomous physical processes. This is meant literally. This cannot be stressed enough.
ASTRID GILBERTO SEX TAPE!
Every role has its own set of concomitant liberties, its sphere of influence, its responsibilities and its restrictions. Boundaries, strictly policed.
The Clown has his liberties and his bonds, and the King also.
Role is Destiny.
Great Armies foundered here
Inviolable
Imbroglio
Incommunicado
In sand dunes beyond measure
and wind which rips flesh from bone
Tumbler
Tomato
Tombola
and so on
and so forth
a crash of rock on rock
Asthma
Armada
Omerta
Astrid Gilberto
Various mechanisms of Control
quite startling,
how much they have achieved
Who is Paul H Robespierre? Robespierre is the cultural contraband.
Torn and tattered posters spell his name
flyposted on black brick walls, railway arches, sentry boxes,
in Ganymede and Xanadu
in Albion City and Pelican Bay
in all the closed socieites
he is there
the product which, though prohibited, is ubiquitous....
The Clown has his liberties and his bonds, and the King also.
Role is Destiny.
Great Armies foundered here
Inviolable
Imbroglio
Incommunicado
In sand dunes beyond measure
and wind which rips flesh from bone
Tumbler
Tomato
Tombola
and so on
and so forth
a crash of rock on rock
Asthma
Armada
Omerta
Astrid Gilberto
Various mechanisms of Control
quite startling,
how much they have achieved
Who is Paul H Robespierre? Robespierre is the cultural contraband.
Torn and tattered posters spell his name
flyposted on black brick walls, railway arches, sentry boxes,
in Ganymede and Xanadu
in Albion City and Pelican Bay
in all the closed socieites
he is there
the product which, though prohibited, is ubiquitous....
Tuesday, June 24, 2008
MIRACLE INVASION!
In the star chamber, under the eyes of stars, beneath the glass dome which keeps out infinite space
machinery hums. white walls and metal machines. humming in the sterile star chamber.
on marble slab lies Frankie Flypaper, like sacrifical victim on the altar, sedated and naked, his tiny, birdlike body peaceful as the dead, just a gentle rising and falling of the rib-ridged chest to vouch for his continued existence. Visible heart clenching and unclenching under the thin blue skin. White light. Machine hum.
Ruche signals from the viewing gallery. Smee presses the button. Dazzling white light. Fierce light. Machines in motion.
Massive radiation rays bathe Frankie's flesh, envelop him in light, recode his DNA, remake his mind, twisting him out of his time track, forcibly hauling him onto another....
evolution fowarded, his face and body flicker into different formations, a thousand frames a minute, beast, fish, ape, alien, skin becoming scaled, furred, glossy as perspex
reality is disintegrated.
Ruche and his retinue watch from the monitors... Smee is grinning manically, sweating, compulsively jumping from foot to foot like a child desperate to piss...
Ruch has a messianic gleam in his eye, a beatific aspect, but with the saint's latent hysteria
Frankie is surrounded with purple, orange, white radiation aura, crackling....
His body levitates from the slab
He is floating a metre above the marble altar, aura crackling in colour
his eyes are closed
rays bathe blue flesh
sores heal, lesions seal
atoms vibrate
all boundaries dissolve
all knowledge is simultaneously apprehended
Universe Brain. He sees himself through the eyes of Ruche, then Smee, then from a disembodied viewpoint a 2 feet above himself. Sees himself floating, auraed, radiation pulsing
DNA becomes language, he sings it, sings a new body, a new mind....
informal settlements grow like toadstools across the rotten body of the state....
graveyards, abandoned housing estates, industrial zones, the forests and hillsides, poisoned toxic land....
the state retreats
the rich have abandoned it
they have their own security forces
their own water supply
their own power
the poor have been abandoned by it
they have no sewerage, no clean water, no stable power supply, no education, no health care. They have no jobs, they pay not taxes. Their births are not registered. Their deaths are not noted. They are the Invisibles. They occupy another world. Hidden in the cracks and crevices and out on the periphery of our world. They make their own arrangements.
In the Star Chamber Frankie's mind is reconverging
his body floats back to the slab, gently, as a leaf falls from a tree, nuzzled by invisible breezes
the Tombstone Kids, the refuse islands, Nogo,
Private Enterprise takes the place of the state, as in the case of Weedly-Chough or Peter Familias' factory town
or
alternatively
criminal organisations
such as the Bandicoots, the Mungiki, the Spear of God, the Lamb of God
resources of private individuals or organisations now dwarf those of the states. Where does power reside?
A patchwork of territories....
"Gentlemen, I bring you the Future!"
Ruch and Smee are exultant
Frankie is beautiful
he has been reborn an Adonis with violet eyes
What has happened to the economy? There is instead a patchwork of informal economies and a vast global blackmarket. Counterfeiters. Thieves. Smugglers. Pimps. Mercenaries. Drug dealers.
Off-grid.
This is a new world. This is your guide to the new world. Your map.
Learn of new gods and new heroes. New fears. New hopes.
MIRACLE INVASION!
machinery hums. white walls and metal machines. humming in the sterile star chamber.
on marble slab lies Frankie Flypaper, like sacrifical victim on the altar, sedated and naked, his tiny, birdlike body peaceful as the dead, just a gentle rising and falling of the rib-ridged chest to vouch for his continued existence. Visible heart clenching and unclenching under the thin blue skin. White light. Machine hum.
Ruche signals from the viewing gallery. Smee presses the button. Dazzling white light. Fierce light. Machines in motion.
Massive radiation rays bathe Frankie's flesh, envelop him in light, recode his DNA, remake his mind, twisting him out of his time track, forcibly hauling him onto another....
evolution fowarded, his face and body flicker into different formations, a thousand frames a minute, beast, fish, ape, alien, skin becoming scaled, furred, glossy as perspex
reality is disintegrated.
Ruche and his retinue watch from the monitors... Smee is grinning manically, sweating, compulsively jumping from foot to foot like a child desperate to piss...
Ruch has a messianic gleam in his eye, a beatific aspect, but with the saint's latent hysteria
Frankie is surrounded with purple, orange, white radiation aura, crackling....
His body levitates from the slab
He is floating a metre above the marble altar, aura crackling in colour
his eyes are closed
rays bathe blue flesh
sores heal, lesions seal
atoms vibrate
all boundaries dissolve
all knowledge is simultaneously apprehended
Universe Brain. He sees himself through the eyes of Ruche, then Smee, then from a disembodied viewpoint a 2 feet above himself. Sees himself floating, auraed, radiation pulsing
DNA becomes language, he sings it, sings a new body, a new mind....
informal settlements grow like toadstools across the rotten body of the state....
graveyards, abandoned housing estates, industrial zones, the forests and hillsides, poisoned toxic land....
the state retreats
the rich have abandoned it
they have their own security forces
their own water supply
their own power
the poor have been abandoned by it
they have no sewerage, no clean water, no stable power supply, no education, no health care. They have no jobs, they pay not taxes. Their births are not registered. Their deaths are not noted. They are the Invisibles. They occupy another world. Hidden in the cracks and crevices and out on the periphery of our world. They make their own arrangements.
In the Star Chamber Frankie's mind is reconverging
his body floats back to the slab, gently, as a leaf falls from a tree, nuzzled by invisible breezes
the Tombstone Kids, the refuse islands, Nogo,
Private Enterprise takes the place of the state, as in the case of Weedly-Chough or Peter Familias' factory town
or
alternatively
criminal organisations
such as the Bandicoots, the Mungiki, the Spear of God, the Lamb of God
resources of private individuals or organisations now dwarf those of the states. Where does power reside?
A patchwork of territories....
"Gentlemen, I bring you the Future!"
Ruch and Smee are exultant
Frankie is beautiful
he has been reborn an Adonis with violet eyes
What has happened to the economy? There is instead a patchwork of informal economies and a vast global blackmarket. Counterfeiters. Thieves. Smugglers. Pimps. Mercenaries. Drug dealers.
Off-grid.
This is a new world. This is your guide to the new world. Your map.
Learn of new gods and new heroes. New fears. New hopes.
MIRACLE INVASION!
Monday, June 23, 2008
PLOD WILLS IT!
the Badger Priests are raiding a drinking establishment....
'OK everyone, put your drinks down and your hands on your head. This is a raid.'
The regulars sigh in acquiescence. Penance not punishment is the motto of the Badger Priests, children all, trained in the Warrens.
None over the age of 13. They wear the pelts of badgers over their heads and white tunics to signify purity, tied round the waist with gold braid.
They have no legal powers as such, only religious authority, but here religious authority counts for a lot. Those who scorn it find themselves overlooked for promotions, shunned by their neighbours, unable to receive credit, life, in short, is made difficult for apostates. So the drinkers set down their glasses and try their best to look repentant.
"Scourge myself little brother? Yes little brother, yes, Plod wills it little brother, I quite agree...."
Escape the tentacles of Plod.
Green and slimy
Slathering limbs.
Penance not Punishment.
"Mr Quince sir, the Aborigines of Australia have been complaining about conditions in the Safari Park. They say they have never had to hunt lions before. They object. They say it is dangerous and that many of their young men have been seriously maimed and even killed by the lions. Do you feel responsible for these accidents Mr Quince? DO you not think it would be more appropriate to have them hunting wallabies or something more traditional Mr Quince sir?"
"Look we've made this quite clear. Autonomy comes at a price. The public won't pay to see those boys club defenceless marsupials to death. We are protecting their ancient and noble culture. But they have to meet us halfway. the public wants to see man against lion. Man against crocodile. Man against bear. Not man against Skippy the bloody kangaroo. End of Story."
'OK everyone, put your drinks down and your hands on your head. This is a raid.'
The regulars sigh in acquiescence. Penance not punishment is the motto of the Badger Priests, children all, trained in the Warrens.
None over the age of 13. They wear the pelts of badgers over their heads and white tunics to signify purity, tied round the waist with gold braid.
They have no legal powers as such, only religious authority, but here religious authority counts for a lot. Those who scorn it find themselves overlooked for promotions, shunned by their neighbours, unable to receive credit, life, in short, is made difficult for apostates. So the drinkers set down their glasses and try their best to look repentant.
"Scourge myself little brother? Yes little brother, yes, Plod wills it little brother, I quite agree...."
Escape the tentacles of Plod.
Green and slimy
Slathering limbs.
Penance not Punishment.
"Mr Quince sir, the Aborigines of Australia have been complaining about conditions in the Safari Park. They say they have never had to hunt lions before. They object. They say it is dangerous and that many of their young men have been seriously maimed and even killed by the lions. Do you feel responsible for these accidents Mr Quince? DO you not think it would be more appropriate to have them hunting wallabies or something more traditional Mr Quince sir?"
"Look we've made this quite clear. Autonomy comes at a price. The public won't pay to see those boys club defenceless marsupials to death. We are protecting their ancient and noble culture. But they have to meet us halfway. the public wants to see man against lion. Man against crocodile. Man against bear. Not man against Skippy the bloody kangaroo. End of Story."
JACKIE CHAN PROMOTES PEACE!
-Truthwerks Broadcasting-
Morris Quince, spokesman for the UN Tribal Peoples Group, reports from the latest meeting
'The preservation of these unique and ancient cultures is of course our sole aim and preoccupation. We have talked long into the afternoon. These are not easy questions to address. The coexistence of the ancient and the modern is a tremendously difficult balancing act. There are numerous practicalities we would be naifs and fools to overlook. If, for example, tribal land happens to be also, the site of valuable mineral wealth, well.... We must be pragmatic. We advocate the integration of the tribesman into the safari park format. The tribesman must be profitable, must be productive if he is to justify his place int he modern world. He must not be mollycoddled nor patronised. Within the safari park format, hunting, under agreed quotas, the animals confined there, staging dances and rituals at times to be agreed upon, with audiences of paying visitors, he can preserve his ancient and noble culture and still meet the demands of the modern world.'
This hodgepodge of vanquished tribes convened on condemned land.... the site of an old gasworks with toxins eating into the soil, where rusted twisted metal protrudes from among the bricks and rubble and broken glass glints in sunshine. Animals wander confusedly in this alien environment, struggling to improvise an ecosystem. Lions, elephants and kangaroos, macaws, cockatoos, gaudy birds of paradise....
Palm trees struggle in the hard dirt. The tribesmen whittle at arrow heads, struggle to learn their lines, the lineaments of foreign histories, myths that don't belong to them, learn the steps of dances far lewder and more lascivious than anything their ancestors would have recognised.
Earnest anthropologists attend meetings with the tribal leaders, accompanied by the safari park owners, Morris Quince and other prominent members of the UN Tribal Peoples Unit.
"Yes, we realise you come from different tribes, that's why we've worked so hard to come up with a kind of generalised vision of your culture and what it represents. the common aspects... spears, hunting, dances.... we've taken the best elements from your respective traditions and made them accessible to our target audience. Look, this way you can retain your independence, we're not asking you to integrate in Western Society. We're trying to preserve the things which make you unique"
Quince sounds terribly exasperated....
"The ingratitude is astounding" he says to one of the entrepreneurs funding the project over drinks later on that evening
"Sometimes I wonder whether it's worth it at all"
"Imagine saying they don't want drums! How can you have a tribal dance show without drums? People expect drums"
A wildebeest kicks at the dust dispiritedly.
Morris Quince, spokesman for the UN Tribal Peoples Group, reports from the latest meeting
'The preservation of these unique and ancient cultures is of course our sole aim and preoccupation. We have talked long into the afternoon. These are not easy questions to address. The coexistence of the ancient and the modern is a tremendously difficult balancing act. There are numerous practicalities we would be naifs and fools to overlook. If, for example, tribal land happens to be also, the site of valuable mineral wealth, well.... We must be pragmatic. We advocate the integration of the tribesman into the safari park format. The tribesman must be profitable, must be productive if he is to justify his place int he modern world. He must not be mollycoddled nor patronised. Within the safari park format, hunting, under agreed quotas, the animals confined there, staging dances and rituals at times to be agreed upon, with audiences of paying visitors, he can preserve his ancient and noble culture and still meet the demands of the modern world.'
This hodgepodge of vanquished tribes convened on condemned land.... the site of an old gasworks with toxins eating into the soil, where rusted twisted metal protrudes from among the bricks and rubble and broken glass glints in sunshine. Animals wander confusedly in this alien environment, struggling to improvise an ecosystem. Lions, elephants and kangaroos, macaws, cockatoos, gaudy birds of paradise....
Palm trees struggle in the hard dirt. The tribesmen whittle at arrow heads, struggle to learn their lines, the lineaments of foreign histories, myths that don't belong to them, learn the steps of dances far lewder and more lascivious than anything their ancestors would have recognised.
Earnest anthropologists attend meetings with the tribal leaders, accompanied by the safari park owners, Morris Quince and other prominent members of the UN Tribal Peoples Unit.
"Yes, we realise you come from different tribes, that's why we've worked so hard to come up with a kind of generalised vision of your culture and what it represents. the common aspects... spears, hunting, dances.... we've taken the best elements from your respective traditions and made them accessible to our target audience. Look, this way you can retain your independence, we're not asking you to integrate in Western Society. We're trying to preserve the things which make you unique"
Quince sounds terribly exasperated....
"The ingratitude is astounding" he says to one of the entrepreneurs funding the project over drinks later on that evening
"Sometimes I wonder whether it's worth it at all"
"Imagine saying they don't want drums! How can you have a tribal dance show without drums? People expect drums"
A wildebeest kicks at the dust dispiritedly.
Sunday, June 22, 2008
FOSSY JAW!
Compte Vermillion Ruche is a confirmed devotee of the practical joke. He is forever recounting tales of his past exploits.
"Remember that time we laced the Marquessa's luncheon with laxatives? Christ, I nearly pissed myself, or rather, she did hahahhaha"
he'll chuckle vociferously. Or
"what about when Denzel was shagging that bit of totty and we got the recording of his mum having sex with her new fella and played it through the stereo, top volume.... fucking hell, she doesn't half make a racket the old dear! I don't think he's ever really recovered from that poor bastard! Ooh, Tony, harder, Tony Harder" he squeals in delight, mimicking the sounds of Denzel's mum with no inconsiderable aplomb, not to mention enthusiasm "ooh, deeper Tony, harder!"
Ruche delights in violating the privacy of his staff, interfering in their sex lives, the movement of their bowels and their intimate emotional lives. This is all done in the name of 'having a laugh' and results in a distinct low level anxiety among all that work for him. A guarded, wary manner.....
He has hidden cameras secreted in the living quarters of all his staff and overtly films them while they are at work. He gathers reams of material about their private lives and predilections.
Naturally in the course of this surveillance he uncovers much contempt and scorn directed at him. Curiously he does not make his mockers the subject of punishment or ostracism but instead seems to feel impelled to win their favour, inviting them hunting or to sit next to him at dinner and share in his favourite cognac....
"Remember that time we laced the Marquessa's luncheon with laxatives? Christ, I nearly pissed myself, or rather, she did hahahhaha"
he'll chuckle vociferously. Or
"what about when Denzel was shagging that bit of totty and we got the recording of his mum having sex with her new fella and played it through the stereo, top volume.... fucking hell, she doesn't half make a racket the old dear! I don't think he's ever really recovered from that poor bastard! Ooh, Tony, harder, Tony Harder" he squeals in delight, mimicking the sounds of Denzel's mum with no inconsiderable aplomb, not to mention enthusiasm "ooh, deeper Tony, harder!"
Ruche delights in violating the privacy of his staff, interfering in their sex lives, the movement of their bowels and their intimate emotional lives. This is all done in the name of 'having a laugh' and results in a distinct low level anxiety among all that work for him. A guarded, wary manner.....
He has hidden cameras secreted in the living quarters of all his staff and overtly films them while they are at work. He gathers reams of material about their private lives and predilections.
Naturally in the course of this surveillance he uncovers much contempt and scorn directed at him. Curiously he does not make his mockers the subject of punishment or ostracism but instead seems to feel impelled to win their favour, inviting them hunting or to sit next to him at dinner and share in his favourite cognac....
HALLIBURTON DEATH CAMP!
FUCK! MACHINE MALFUNCTION!
the machines have gone haywire. the young workers look like they're in the midst of an epileptic fit, twitching and spasming like broken puppets.... it doesn't seem to occur to them that the machine is faulty, spewing out random signals. they strive to keep up with every beep. they're going to collapse with exhaustion, maybe die, like the participants of the dance marathons they held in the depression. limbs kick and flail, are twisted into unnatural angles. it's grotesque. god, look at that one, shes actually foaming at the nostrils!
such pride in their work though! such dedication!
it's inspiring really.
deep in the underground research laboratories a lowly lab technician is on the verge of a shattering breakthrough...
"if i can pull this one off I'll be in clover for the rest of my days. Ruche will fucking love me for it..."
Manor houses in which rituals are enacted, awry, a misprint in the grimoire conjures the wrong god.
A lewd demon who cums in the face of an eminent aristocrat. Lady Jowel-Humbugger, of Anglo-Germanic descent.
‘Hypotenuse, initiate us in your celestial mysteries’
‘I’m not Hypotenuse, I’m Donkey Schlong, here’s cum in your eye you horse-faced slag’
SPLAT!
‘Here’s another pearl necklace for your collection you inbred tart!’
Little Frankie Flypaper's skin is a ravaged landscape of suppurating sores and seeping lesions. He has been hard at work melting down plastic bags for the boss. His lungs crackle and wheeze. He daren't slow down or he'll get a crack round the head from that horrible cunt Billy Brigand, the Overseer.
One day Frankie's going to escape. He knows all about the mainland. They all do. Hell, the walls of his hut are papered with pictures from magazines and newspapers. There's more to life than this, sifting through through the rubbish, the stench of sulphurous hell in the nostrils...
CRACK!
"Flypaper you malingering little bastard, stop daydreaming!"
He gets a sympathetic look from old Lesley, Lesley's all right. Master craftsman, Lesley. His work sells for thousands on the mainland. Course, no one had any idea till that magazine turned up, Arty-Facts, that was it, and one of his contrivances emblazoned all over the front cover.
'No information regarding this elusive genius is available. His agent, a Mr Boris Zlocky, says only that he is deeply private and lives as a recluse on a barren island in the North Sea, shunning all guests other than himself.'
Course, it was all a load of bollocks. Les is a serf, does what the boss tells him. To be fair, they treat him special. Have to. Biggest cash cow on the bloody island. Shaping his sculptures from melted plastic and crippled metal. Wires and circuitry.
Frankie's nostrils drool black snot.
Ruche thinks he's found a way to activate the dormant DNA, to trigger the next phase of evolution. A few minor technical issues remain, and it is with these our young friend in the lab has been wrestling with. He has doubts, but no scruples. He imagines the moment he announces his findings to Ruche, the ebullient high-fives and whooping.
What these changes will be and whether they will be supportable in the current environment is unknown.
His name is Sebastian Smee, and he is very ambitious.
"Frankie! Stop fucking about with that plastic bag and get your scrawny arse over here!"
Christ, it's Fat Larry, the head of the operation! Frankie didn't even realise Larry knew of his existence let alone his name. This couldn't be good.
"Frankie my boy, meet Sebsatian Smee"
A young, spotty chap with a staid haircut and a labcoat stood before him, one clammy hand extended. Frankie took it, hesitantly. Sebastian beamed, an unwholesome smile.
"Ever been to the mainland Frankie?" His voice had the cracked, wavering quality of the newly adolescent.
"Christ Smee, surely you could have unearthed a sprightlier selection of specimens that this!"
Frankie was standing in a line of 6 boys and 6 girls. They were all naked and being inspected by a very short plump man wearing the most outrageous costume Frankie had ever clapped eyes on. The light was very white and very bright. The room was very large and very white and gleamed painfully. It was immaculate.
"well, it can't be helped" the man concluded with a theatrical flourish of the hand "take them to their quarters"
Everything is very clean. It smells of cleaning chemicals. Everything is white. It is a small room. There are no windows and the light is very bright and white. There is a bed. The sheets are very white. The walls are very white. Glossy, smooth to the touch. A kind of plastic coating. There is a chest of drawers. It gleams with the same white plastic coating. The handles are stainless steel. There is nothing in any of the drawers. There is a speaker embedded in the ceiling. There is nothing else in the room.
"Welcome to Ruche Laboratories. You have been selected for a series of clinical trials. Your family nominated you. They have been given a handsome financial reward in return for your participation. The next few weeks will be an exciting time for you. You will meet many new people and learn many interesting things. You will be party to the most important scientific research carried out this century. Please relax and enjoy your time here at Ruche Laboratories."
the speaker finished transmitting its message and the room fell silent again.
the machines have gone haywire. the young workers look like they're in the midst of an epileptic fit, twitching and spasming like broken puppets.... it doesn't seem to occur to them that the machine is faulty, spewing out random signals. they strive to keep up with every beep. they're going to collapse with exhaustion, maybe die, like the participants of the dance marathons they held in the depression. limbs kick and flail, are twisted into unnatural angles. it's grotesque. god, look at that one, shes actually foaming at the nostrils!
such pride in their work though! such dedication!
it's inspiring really.
deep in the underground research laboratories a lowly lab technician is on the verge of a shattering breakthrough...
"if i can pull this one off I'll be in clover for the rest of my days. Ruche will fucking love me for it..."
Manor houses in which rituals are enacted, awry, a misprint in the grimoire conjures the wrong god.
A lewd demon who cums in the face of an eminent aristocrat. Lady Jowel-Humbugger, of Anglo-Germanic descent.
‘Hypotenuse, initiate us in your celestial mysteries’
‘I’m not Hypotenuse, I’m Donkey Schlong, here’s cum in your eye you horse-faced slag’
SPLAT!
‘Here’s another pearl necklace for your collection you inbred tart!’
Little Frankie Flypaper's skin is a ravaged landscape of suppurating sores and seeping lesions. He has been hard at work melting down plastic bags for the boss. His lungs crackle and wheeze. He daren't slow down or he'll get a crack round the head from that horrible cunt Billy Brigand, the Overseer.
One day Frankie's going to escape. He knows all about the mainland. They all do. Hell, the walls of his hut are papered with pictures from magazines and newspapers. There's more to life than this, sifting through through the rubbish, the stench of sulphurous hell in the nostrils...
CRACK!
"Flypaper you malingering little bastard, stop daydreaming!"
He gets a sympathetic look from old Lesley, Lesley's all right. Master craftsman, Lesley. His work sells for thousands on the mainland. Course, no one had any idea till that magazine turned up, Arty-Facts, that was it, and one of his contrivances emblazoned all over the front cover.
'No information regarding this elusive genius is available. His agent, a Mr Boris Zlocky, says only that he is deeply private and lives as a recluse on a barren island in the North Sea, shunning all guests other than himself.'
Course, it was all a load of bollocks. Les is a serf, does what the boss tells him. To be fair, they treat him special. Have to. Biggest cash cow on the bloody island. Shaping his sculptures from melted plastic and crippled metal. Wires and circuitry.
Frankie's nostrils drool black snot.
Ruche thinks he's found a way to activate the dormant DNA, to trigger the next phase of evolution. A few minor technical issues remain, and it is with these our young friend in the lab has been wrestling with. He has doubts, but no scruples. He imagines the moment he announces his findings to Ruche, the ebullient high-fives and whooping.
What these changes will be and whether they will be supportable in the current environment is unknown.
His name is Sebastian Smee, and he is very ambitious.
"Frankie! Stop fucking about with that plastic bag and get your scrawny arse over here!"
Christ, it's Fat Larry, the head of the operation! Frankie didn't even realise Larry knew of his existence let alone his name. This couldn't be good.
"Frankie my boy, meet Sebsatian Smee"
A young, spotty chap with a staid haircut and a labcoat stood before him, one clammy hand extended. Frankie took it, hesitantly. Sebastian beamed, an unwholesome smile.
"Ever been to the mainland Frankie?" His voice had the cracked, wavering quality of the newly adolescent.
"Christ Smee, surely you could have unearthed a sprightlier selection of specimens that this!"
Frankie was standing in a line of 6 boys and 6 girls. They were all naked and being inspected by a very short plump man wearing the most outrageous costume Frankie had ever clapped eyes on. The light was very white and very bright. The room was very large and very white and gleamed painfully. It was immaculate.
"well, it can't be helped" the man concluded with a theatrical flourish of the hand "take them to their quarters"
Everything is very clean. It smells of cleaning chemicals. Everything is white. It is a small room. There are no windows and the light is very bright and white. There is a bed. The sheets are very white. The walls are very white. Glossy, smooth to the touch. A kind of plastic coating. There is a chest of drawers. It gleams with the same white plastic coating. The handles are stainless steel. There is nothing in any of the drawers. There is a speaker embedded in the ceiling. There is nothing else in the room.
"Welcome to Ruche Laboratories. You have been selected for a series of clinical trials. Your family nominated you. They have been given a handsome financial reward in return for your participation. The next few weeks will be an exciting time for you. You will meet many new people and learn many interesting things. You will be party to the most important scientific research carried out this century. Please relax and enjoy your time here at Ruche Laboratories."
the speaker finished transmitting its message and the room fell silent again.
Saturday, June 21, 2008
PLANET OF SLUMS!
tiny birdlike figures, deformed by leaking toxins, grow vegetables on the refuse islands, snare seabirds, recycle electronics, plunder circuit boards for gold....
whole populations support themselves in this way, on offcuts, waste, detritus.
squabbling with gulls and rats.
the refuse islands are enormous. the boats come in. those that live on the islands were stowaways, or the descendants of stowaways.
the islands are manmade. mountainous. studded with hovels. villages smoke in the shadow of garbage mountains. energy extracted from the heat of rotting waste.
in truth, there is no shortage of food here. there are dangers by the dozen, but no scarcity. there are landslides, whole settlements enveloped as a hillside shears off.
toxins leech into the skin. contaminated food. dangerous work. fires flare up without warning. but no scarcity. that's why so many people live here. rooting through the rubbish. fellaheen. snaring seabirds. fishing in the shallows.
Houses rise from the rubble, the hummus of organic waste, plastic bags..... jerrybuilt
painted with the images of popular heroes and homespun gods or with the images of meadows, forests, beaches with sun setting over golden sand....
driftwood frames, improvised concrete embedded with shells, plastic action figures, coins, the bones of fish and seabirds, charms and amulets...
streets of trampled down rubbish
stench of sulphurous hell
mansions of mob bosses on top of rubbish heaps, rat skulls on lengths of sharpened wood, guarded by teenagers with bloodshot eyes
knife fights in the night streets....
wildfire cults spread messages of mania, dancing till collapse, apocalyptic creeds tied to political ends, harnessing the god fervour
small fishing craft bobbing off the refuse islands, flinging out nets
fires spew toxic smoke, thick and black, swallow houses, whole streets eaten by fire
diseases mutate, swarm through the narrow streets, bubonic plagues and cholera, TB, smallpox.... old devils in new dress
and on the mainland too, in the squatter camps, in the old factories huddled together on concrete floors, in tents under leaking roofs
in housing estates long abandoned. walls are broken down, warrens formed, new architectures
Cracked ashaplt in which dandelions, thistles and nettles grow. Sycamore trees. Pigeons. Rats. Fires in steel drums. Buildings. Old office and retail space. Solid grey concrete. Rain streaked. Or metal hangers. Functional and drab. And in between, around and built onto these, shanty structures of corrugated iron, driftwood and shipping containers. And inside too. In shopping malls and retail hangers. Tent cities. Firelight. Pigeons in the rafters. Disrepair. On walls amateurish murals fade. Paintings of masked, armed men clenching fists aloft in victory. Memoirs of more idealistic times. When people hoped for more than just survival. Or had the energy to pretend to do so.
Peter Familias is making his rounds of the dinner hall
"there is to be no desert until everyone and i mean everyone, has cleaned his plate. Yes, that includes you Jenkins, eat your greens"
The captains of the refuse-ships have a monopoly on everything salvaged from the rubbish. Whatever can be resold or recycled. The profits are handsome.
The inhabitants of the islands have no other way to get their goods to the mainland.
Most of these islands are in the hands of mobs, their makeshift societies subject to rigid hierarchies held in place by violence and intimidation. On others a fragile anarchism still prevails and a man may enjoy the fruits of his labour.
In the African football factories children as young as 4 are practising kickups. Everytime they allow the ball to drop to the floor they are whipped.
whole populations support themselves in this way, on offcuts, waste, detritus.
squabbling with gulls and rats.
the refuse islands are enormous. the boats come in. those that live on the islands were stowaways, or the descendants of stowaways.
the islands are manmade. mountainous. studded with hovels. villages smoke in the shadow of garbage mountains. energy extracted from the heat of rotting waste.
in truth, there is no shortage of food here. there are dangers by the dozen, but no scarcity. there are landslides, whole settlements enveloped as a hillside shears off.
toxins leech into the skin. contaminated food. dangerous work. fires flare up without warning. but no scarcity. that's why so many people live here. rooting through the rubbish. fellaheen. snaring seabirds. fishing in the shallows.
Houses rise from the rubble, the hummus of organic waste, plastic bags..... jerrybuilt
painted with the images of popular heroes and homespun gods or with the images of meadows, forests, beaches with sun setting over golden sand....
driftwood frames, improvised concrete embedded with shells, plastic action figures, coins, the bones of fish and seabirds, charms and amulets...
streets of trampled down rubbish
stench of sulphurous hell
mansions of mob bosses on top of rubbish heaps, rat skulls on lengths of sharpened wood, guarded by teenagers with bloodshot eyes
knife fights in the night streets....
wildfire cults spread messages of mania, dancing till collapse, apocalyptic creeds tied to political ends, harnessing the god fervour
small fishing craft bobbing off the refuse islands, flinging out nets
fires spew toxic smoke, thick and black, swallow houses, whole streets eaten by fire
diseases mutate, swarm through the narrow streets, bubonic plagues and cholera, TB, smallpox.... old devils in new dress
and on the mainland too, in the squatter camps, in the old factories huddled together on concrete floors, in tents under leaking roofs
in housing estates long abandoned. walls are broken down, warrens formed, new architectures
Cracked ashaplt in which dandelions, thistles and nettles grow. Sycamore trees. Pigeons. Rats. Fires in steel drums. Buildings. Old office and retail space. Solid grey concrete. Rain streaked. Or metal hangers. Functional and drab. And in between, around and built onto these, shanty structures of corrugated iron, driftwood and shipping containers. And inside too. In shopping malls and retail hangers. Tent cities. Firelight. Pigeons in the rafters. Disrepair. On walls amateurish murals fade. Paintings of masked, armed men clenching fists aloft in victory. Memoirs of more idealistic times. When people hoped for more than just survival. Or had the energy to pretend to do so.
Peter Familias is making his rounds of the dinner hall
"there is to be no desert until everyone and i mean everyone, has cleaned his plate. Yes, that includes you Jenkins, eat your greens"
The captains of the refuse-ships have a monopoly on everything salvaged from the rubbish. Whatever can be resold or recycled. The profits are handsome.
The inhabitants of the islands have no other way to get their goods to the mainland.
Most of these islands are in the hands of mobs, their makeshift societies subject to rigid hierarchies held in place by violence and intimidation. On others a fragile anarchism still prevails and a man may enjoy the fruits of his labour.
In the African football factories children as young as 4 are practising kickups. Everytime they allow the ball to drop to the floor they are whipped.
ENDYMION! ANOTHER ORTOLAN!
Compte Vermillion Ruche is touring his laboratory. A young lab technician accompanies, clutching a satin bag of ortolans. Everytime Ruche finishes devouring a bird the earnest young man passes him another. Ruche eats with great relish, biting off the head first and talking as he chews.
"at one time of course this was considered junk DNA. Just imagine! The presumptuousness of some people! If they couldn't figure out what it was there for then of course it must be useless, the genetic equivalent of an appendix! It's like hearing someone speaking a foreign tongue and assuming it must be gibberish, just because you can't understand him.
"at one time of course this was considered junk DNA. Just imagine! The presumptuousness of some people! If they couldn't figure out what it was there for then of course it must be useless, the genetic equivalent of an appendix! It's like hearing someone speaking a foreign tongue and assuming it must be gibberish, just because you can't understand him.
AETHERNET!
COMMUNICATE WITH SPIRITS TODAY!
With our all new AetherSpeak head set. Simply attach our headset and recite your invocation. The spirits will be at your command!
With our all new AetherSpeak head set. Simply attach our headset and recite your invocation. The spirits will be at your command!
Priceless Attributes completed the purchase of Weedly-Chough 3 years ago.
Since then all villagers have been compelled to don the garb of 13th century peasants and engage in a range of antiquted crafts; thatching, blacksmithery, dung hauling, and jousting. there is much consternation among the inhabitants but what can you do? it pays the bills.
Since then all villagers have been compelled to don the garb of 13th century peasants and engage in a range of antiquted crafts; thatching, blacksmithery, dung hauling, and jousting. there is much consternation among the inhabitants but what can you do? it pays the bills.
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